(1895) Arthur Conan Doyle Chapter One March 24. The spring is fairly with us now. Outside my laboratory window the great chestnut-tree is all covered with the big, glutinous, gummy buds, some of which have already begun to break into little green shuttlecocks. As you walk down the lanes you are conscious of the rich, silent forces of nature working all around you. The wet earth smells fruitful and luscious. Green shoots are peeping out everywhere. The twigs are stiff with their sap; and the moist, heavy English air is laden with a faintly resinous perfume. Buds in the hedges, lambs beneath them– everywhere the work of reproduction going forward! I can see it without, and I can feel it within. We also have our spring when the little arterioles dilate, the lymph flows in a brisker stream, the glands work harder, winnowing and straining. Every year nature readjusts the whole machine. I can feel the ferment in my blood at this very moment, and as the cool sunshine pours through my window I could […]
Category: Lore
A collection of short stories new and old, relating in some way or another to our fine Victorian age.
From Historical future, to futuristic history, to futuristic present and beyond, these stories reflect some of the very best our times have to offer, influenced by modern science and often leaning towards the domain of “science-fiction” as they are calling it now.
As an added treat, our benign experiments in the fields of better managing time and space, have allowed us the unique opportunity to offer stories from various possible futures of parallel worlds. These tales (so far) come from as as far future as the beginnings of the second millenium, many of which romanticising this our fine age!
Please keep in mind that these future-past stories are historical horror-fiction works from the “neo-victorian”, “new-romantic”, and “steampunk” schools of art, and in that should not be seen as accurate portrayals of the present or coming years for Miskatonic University or Arkham in general, and that all common threads regarding our establishment must only be credited to their common roots in a particular literary movement.
Stories are divided into two sections, and then divided again alpha by author.
— The New Testament
These stories are copyright their respective owners, and remain the sole property of their respective owners. They are ours only to publish here and only for the time period established by the author.
— The Old Testament
These works, though written in the Edwardian and Vistorian ages, fall under the license of public domain. For this reason we have listed their first publishing dates instead of “copyright” dates.
The Call of Cthulhu
(1926) H. P. Lovecraft Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival… a survival of a hugely remote period when… consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity… forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds… – Algernon Blackwood Chapter One – The Horror In Clay The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace […]
THE WILLOWS
(1907) Algernon Blackwood Chapter One After leaving Vienna, and long before you come to Budapest, the Danube enters a region of singular loneliness and desolation, where its waters spread away on all sides regardless of a main channel, and the country becomes a swamp for miles upon miles, covered by a vast sea of low willow-bushes. On the big maps this deserted area is painted in a fluffy blue, growing fainter in color as it leaves the banks, and across it may be seen in large straggling letters the word Sumpfe, meaning marshes. In high flood this great acreage of sand, shingle-beds, and willow-grown islands is almost topped by the water, but in normal seasons the bushes bend and rustle in the free winds, showing their silver leaves to the sunshine in an ever-moving plain of bewildering beauty. These willows never attain to the dignity of trees; they have no rigid trunks; they remain humble bushes, with rounded tops and soft outline, swaying on slender stems that answer to the least pressure of the wind; […]
The Dunwich Horror
(1928) H. P. Lovecraft as published April 1929 in “Weird Tales” The Dunwich Horror Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimaeras – dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies – may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition – but they were there before. They are transcripts, types – the archtypes are in us, and eternal. How else should the recital of that which we know in a waking sense to be false come to affect us all? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such objects, considered in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily injury? O, least of all! These terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body – or without the body, they would have been the same… That the kind of fear here treated is purely spiritual – that it is strong in proportion as it is objectless on earth, that it predominates in the period of our sinless infancy – are difficulties the solution of which might afford some probable insight into our ante-mundane condition, and a […]
The Moon-Bog
(1921) H. P. Lovecraft Published June 1926 in Weird Tales Somewhere, to what remote and fearsome region I know not, Denys Barry has gone. I was with him the last night he lived among men, and heard his screams when the thing came to him; but all the peasants and police in County Meath could never find him, or the others, though they searched long and far. And now I shudder when I hear the frogs piping in swamps, or see the moon in lonely places. I had known Denys Barry well in America, where he had grown rich, and had congratulated him when he bought back the old castle by the bog at sleepy Kilderry. It was from Kilderry that his father had come, and it was there that he wished to enjoy his wealth among ancestral scenes. Men of his blood had once ruled over Kilderry and built and dwelt in the castle, but those days were very remote, so that for generations the castle had been empty and decaying. After he went […]